Destiny Calls

by Samantha Wayland

  Patrick sincerely hoped that didn"t come to pass. Not just because Destiny would be in danger, but because she would remove some of his favorite body parts and use them for kindling when she got a hold of him.

  Thankfully, so far nothing had happened.

  They were doing all they could to be safe, cautious. So damn careful. And still, Patrick thought as he climbed into his truck, mindful of the time, he was nervous.

  Concerned enough about their safety that he had to actively resist the temptation to pick up his cell and tell them to wait for him before going into the house. He knew Brandon wouldn"t go charging in until he knew the house was secure. Just as he hadn"t the night before. There"d been an unmarked car parked on his street for two days and no one had seen anything.

  Running his hand over his face, Patrick fought back the frustration that had been riding him all day. He and Brandon, Carter and McGuire—even Sully—had spent most of the two days since Destiny"s run-in outside her office, trying to find something on Bobby Wilkinson and whoever the hell had approached Destiny yesterday. They"d questioned Mario Benedetto again. They"d chased down every snitch Brandon"s team had in the North End. And they"d come up almost entirely blank. The one lead was 175

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  finding an address for Bobby"s mother. McGuire was headed to her house now to see if she could shed some light on her son and whatever he was involved in.

  Taking a deep breath, Patrick started the truck and told himself he could relax for the three minutes it would take to get home.

  He barely registered a flash of movement in the side mirror, then cold steel pressed to his neck.

  “Don"t move,” a shaky voice said behind him. In the mirror Patrick saw a young man, twitchy as hell, holding the gun to his neck through his open window. Patrick recognized him from Brandon"s decription of his attackers and Destiny"s description of the man who had tried to save her outside her office two days before.

  Shit.

  Very slowly he lifted his hands from the steering wheel, trying to show his cooperation even as he searched the cab of his truck, wishing like hell he hadn"t thrown his cell phone on the dashboard.

  Looking outside his windows, he wondered at his bad luck when there wasn"t a single fucking person in the parking lot to see them. The kid collecting carts on the other side of the acre of pavement was oblivious to anything but whatever was playing on his iPod.

  Patrick jumped when the passenger door opened. A man slid into his truck. Grey hair and loose skin showed his age and the effects of hard living. He was probably in his fifties, though he looked older. The cross around his neck and the Bible clutched in one hand told Patrick he was about to get another piece in puzzle of what was behind all their troubles and more than ever he was certain it had nothing to do with the Benedetto family.

  The .9mm in his other hand warned Patrick he wasn"t here to talk.

  He calculated the risk of going for his own holstered gun, regardless of the muzzle pressed to the back of his neck. The old man lunged before he had finished doing the math.

  A needle plunged through his pants and into his thigh, hellfire racing up his leg as god-only-knew what kind of dope was pumped into him. He saw the Bible on the seat beside him. He hadn"t seen the syringe clutched along the book"s spine until it was too late.

  He reached for his gun, his fingers numb before they brushed uselessly at the holster"s snap.

  The old man grinned. Patrick"s heart began a loud, ponderous beat in his ears.

  It didn"t take years of honed cop instincts to see the guy was fucking crazy. It was right there in his eyes.

  The drug hit him quickly, stealing his body from his control faster than it dulled his mind. He wondered if it would stop his heart.

  His heart. And he"d only just given it away.

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  He wanted to roar when his body slumped into his seat, but any kind of speech was no longer within his capacity.

  His door opened and sent him sprawling into the arms of the boy. His significantly greater size almost took them both down to the pavement, but another set of hands caught his arm. He fought with his body to struggle, to fight, to do anything.

  Nothing.

  A black fog ate at his will and he battled it back. He had to protect Destiny and Brandon. To warn them. Their images floated before him and he felt revived. He loved them so much. He had always loved them.

  He needed to tell them that. Again and again.

  But he couldn"t hold out, couldn"t hold on. Their images, so clear one moment, slipped away as the black void engulfed him.

  Brandon was trying not to panic.

  Patrick was only fifteen minutes late, after all. It wasn"t like he wasn"t capable of taking care of himself. He was probably stuck at the store, or picking up some takeout.

  Something.

  Destiny"s fingers gripped his even tighter, their hands clasped across the table in Ethel"s kitchen. Their kitchen. He started to bounce his leg. He made himself stop.

  Farley leaned against him, worried too.

  Destiny broke first. “Let"s call his cell.”

  Relieved to be able to pretend it was for Destiny"s sake, Brandon dialed Patrick"s cell phone.

  No answer.

  He stood. He dialed again.

  No answer.

  Something was very wrong.

  He gave up fighting the fear and called the station. God help him if Patrick was out buying fucking margarita mix with a dead cell phone battery, but he was bringing in the cavalry anyway.

  There was still no sign of Patrick by the time McGuire, Carter, Captain Sullivan and three of his Task Force colleagues arrived at Patrick"s house. The news they brought was bad.

  Brandon refused to sit when Sully asked him to. Instead the Captain sat with Destiny and took her hands in his.

  “We found Patrick"s truck on the way here. I"ve got men going to retrieve it,” Sully said.

  Destiny looked confused. “I don"t understand.”

  “It was sitting at the Stop & Shop, engine on, driver door open, no sign of Patrick.” 177

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  Brandon thought he might vomit. He could tell by the way McGuire was looking at him that there was more. “No sign at all?”

  “His cell phone was on the dashboard, which is how we found it. GPS,” he offered, his hesitation setting off ever louder alarm bells in Brandon"s head.

  Shit, he should have sat down. He locked his knees and stared at Sully, waiting.

  Sully squeezed Destiny"s hand and continued. “And there was an empty syringe on the floor,” he admitted quietly.

  Destiny began to cry.

  Brandon pulled her out of the chair and into his arms. Focusing on her would be better than thinking. He couldn"t think.

  He looked over her shoulder at Patrick"s boss and friend. “What do we do next?” Sully stood, appearing older than he ever had. Shaken. Brandon reached out and clutched his shoulder.

  “We take you two back to the station, where you"re safe and where you can help us find answers. I"ve already requested Bobby Wilkinson be moved from the county lock-up infirmary to one of our interrogation rooms. Immediately. In the meantime, I"ll leave a couple men here at the house in case Patrick or anyone else comes around.” Brandon nodded, too close to the edge to speak. They had to find Patrick. He had to tell Patrick all the things he"d been too stupid and afraid to say. Why hadn"t he been braver?

  Forcing his thoughts from what he couldn"t change, his mind raged with ideas on how he could extract information from Bobby Wilkinson.

  Destiny tugged at her hand and he realized he was crushing it in his own, easing his grip immediately. He told himself to pull his shit together, managing to do so long enough to get them back in the car. Captain Sullivan rode shotgun for the trip to the station, with cruisers in front and back.

  Brandon drove on autopilot, trying to plan, to think, but always coming back to one simple truth.


  He should have told Patrick he wanted forever.

  * * * * *

  Standing in the packed observation room, Destiny"s hand still clutched in his, Brandon watched Bobby Wilkinson being led on crutches into the room, just inches away on the other side of the glass. Rage burned in his gut.

  “What do we know?” he asked, struggling to find his reason. His calm.

  Bob MacFarlane, his colleague from Organized Crime, spoke up. “Not much. We"ve yet to find any connection to the Bennedettos and Mario is avidly claiming he has nothing whatsoever to do with this. Can"t find an angle on why he would be involved.” McGuire entered the room and all eyes turned to him. “I"ve checked everything I can on this guy"s history and there is no mob connection. He never made it onto your 178

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  radar,” he said, indicating Brandon and the other Task Force members in the room,

  “and the Feds haven"t heard of him. Nothing. The only person I"ve spoken to who does claim to know him is his mother, who is a real piece of work. Dad took off when Bobby was a kid, never came back. Mom claims to have done the best she could on her own, but all she could tell me was that she kicked „that weird kid" out of the house a few years back for being „into freaky Jesus shit" and she hasn"t heard from him since.” The door opened again and Brandon"s boss, Lieutenant Richter, entered. Brandon hadn"t been real happy with the distance Richter had been keeping since his attack and subsequent exit from the closet.

  “Brandon, I"ve called everyone I can think of and no one with connections to any family—Irish, Italian, Vietnamese, you name it—has heard of any contract out on you, Patrick or Destiny.”

  More dead ends. Though another strong ally, it turned out. His boss had ties all over local and federal law enforcement and he"d have had to call in some favors for that intel.

  “Thank you,” Brandon managed.

  But what did it all mean? They didn"t know who or what Bobby Wilkinson was, but one thing was becoming pretty clear.

  “This guy isn"t mob, is he?” Brandon asked no one in particular. When every head in the room but Destiny"s began to bob, he accepted it.

  So then who or what the fuck was he? Brandon was tired of waiting to find out. He didn"t care if it cost him his job. The job didn"t matter.

  What mattered was Patrick.

  What mattered were the countless hideous statistics roaring through his head, each one reminding him that the longer they went without finding his friend, the greater the likelihood they wouldn"t find him alive.

  Brandon was in Interrogation Room A with Bobby Wilkinson before anyone could stop him. He was vaguely amused by the thump of someone hitting the door as it closed in their face. He took the moment of distraction, the mere seconds Bobby"s attention was drawn to the door, to collect himself and get his emotions in check.

  They could yank him out of there, bodily haul his ass from the room, but he didn"t think they would. It would undermine their standing with the accused. It would lessen their chances of finding Patrick.

  At this point, most of the people in the observation room were probably willing to let him sacrifice his career. Not because he was gay. But because Patrick was one of their own.

  As he sat down at the table across from a wary-looking Bobby, Brandon wondered for a moment if perhaps he and Patrick hadn"t given their friends and colleagues enough benefit of the doubt. In the face of losing Patrick, Brandon wondered why he"d ever cared what any of them thought anyway.

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  “Well, Bobby, have you heard?”

  Bobby looked suspicious. “Heard what?”

  “Your buddies grabbed my friend Patrick.”

  “They did?” he asked, his face blooming into a smile that sent Brandon"s rage soaring. He ruthlessly crushed it down and remained passive in his seat.

  “Yes, they did. You don"t seem surprised.”

  Bobby sat mute, his face shining with happiness, as if he"d accomplished a great feat. Perhaps, Brandon thought, it had been their aim all along to make him suffer.

  Because if that was the case, they were doing a really bang-up job.

  “Who the hell do you work for?” Brandon demanded.

  At this, Bobby blinked. “God.”

  “What?”

  “I do God"s work. As all righteous men do.” He shrugged. “But you wouldn"t know, would you? Your queer notions have damned you to hell for all eternity.” Ignore that. He pushed on.

  “And what does God want with Patrick? What did he ever do?” he asked, his guts clenching.

  “He is like you! He aides you, is a friend to you, and you are an abomination, a sinner, a blight on all mankind.”

  Brandon battled back his instinctive response. It was never nice to be called a blight, even if he didn"t give a shit what this asshole thought of him. He stood slowly, giving himself time to calm so his tone would remain even. “Why do you care how others live their lives? Who their friends are?”

  “I"m a Christian! I am duty-bound to protect the innocent from you!”

  “And by kidnapping Patrick, he"s protected from me?” Brandon couldn"t determine if his anger had escalated to the point that he couldn"t think straight, or if this whack-job wasn"t making one damn bit of sense.

  “No! People like you, like this Patrick, you cannot be allowed to police anyone. You cannot be allowed to remain in positions where you can judge others. You have no moral foundation. No compass to lead you to God, because you have turned your back on The Father. If you cannot find what little good is left in your black souls and resign, then we will remove you. We will do our civic duty and tear you out like the cancer you are. And by doing so, we protect all of this city.” Brandon stood stunned, momentarily overwhelmed by the hatred blazing from this man"s eyes, spewing from his mouth. They were targeting gay cops?

  Bobby Wilkinson was fucking crazy. And his friends were going to kill Patrick.

  He reached out without thinking, one hand grasping Bobby"s shirt front and hauling him to his feet, the other cocked back, prepared to do whatever it took to find Patrick.

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  His guts were knotted up, his anger so encompassing his skin felt hot and tight. He wanted to hurt this man. Wanted to make him suffer as he suffered. To make him tell him where Patrick was being held. His mind screamed with the need to get to Patrick, the fury clenching his fist, ready to pound it out of Bobby Wilkinson.

  He didn"t flinch when someone started banging on the mirror behind him.

  He was prepared to cross a line he"d never been over, never even contemplated crossing before today. His lieutenant was no doubt the one calling him from the room, trying to save what was left of his job.

  He looked down at Bobby"s face, glowing with the righteous delusion that Brandon was only acting to form, being the broken man this zealot"s eyes expected to see.

  With a sigh, he let Bobby go.

  It wasn"t that it wouldn"t be worth it. It was that it wouldn"t work. He"d never tell Brandon anything.

  Everyone in the observation room stood with their mouths hanging open and their eyes on Destiny.

  Okay, so maybe she shouldn"t have knocked on the window like that. It probably was overstepping her bounds, what with her being the only civilian in the room, but she didn"t care. They had more important priorities then proper protocol. And if they were paying attention, they would see Brandon"s boss and Captain Sullivan both looked mildly relieved that she"d interrupted Brandon, even if they too looked shocked she"d done what they hadn"t been willing to do themselves.

  Everyone wanted Patrick safe and the rest of them weren"t big scary in love with him. Hell of a time for her to figure it out.

  Sitting in the back seat of her car on the way to the station, she"d tried to calm herself, but all she had been able to think about was what would happen if she lost Patrick or Brandon.

  She"d always assumed they"d be there. Always believed that they"d be her shoulder to cry on,
her best friends. She"d foolishly never even imagined a world without them close. They were her family. The ones that would stay with her, stand by her, forever.

  She, the commitment-phobe, had committed herself to them half a lifetime ago.

  They"d never let her down. She"d do the same for them.

  If she got a chance.

  She watched Brandon move away from Bobby Wilkinson. His rage was an almost tangible thing. Gone was his perfectly passive face with the practiced façade and endless diplomacy. His control was shattered.

  She understood completely. But she also knew that if Brandon laid a hand on Bobby Wilkinson, Bobby would only feel righteous.

  Hadn"t Bobby been willing to let himself bleed to death rather than allow Brandon to come to his aide after she"d shot him? And how far would the people in this room 181

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  really let Brandon go before they put a stop to it? Not far enough to break Bobby Wilkinson, she"d bet, but far enough to damage Brandon"s soul.

  She wouldn"t let him do that.

  Brandon came through the door, closing it quietly behind him. He turned to his supervisor who shook his head and pointed at her. Brandon looked at her, brows raised.

  She put a soothing hand on Brandon"s arm. “Can I go in?” she asked.

  “No!” The immediate response came from at least four people.

  But not Brandon. His expression was simply curious. His trust absolute. It fueled her confidence.

  She turned to Captain Sullivan, about to launch into her arguments for being alone with Bobby, when the only other woman in the room spoke up. “What do you have in mind?”

  Dr. Ellen Spencer was the department psychologist and apparently Destiny"s best shot at an ally.

  “I think I can get him to tell me where Patrick is, if he knows,” she explained. “I think I can make him trust me.”

  The shrink began to nod slowly but at least two other heads started to shake.

  Destiny pressed her advantage.

  “Can I borrow your blazer?” she asked the other woman.

  When the doctor immediately shrugged out of her dark blue coat, Destiny knew they understood each other. She buttoned up her blouse as high as it would go, yanking her skirt lower on her hips so the hem brushed her knee. As she slipped into the coat, she felt a hand on her arm.